The City By the Sea
by SMKLegacy
Summary: Fifth in the Roses series; Josh and Donna have some things to think about
1. Josh

**Disclaimers:**  _The West Wing_ and all the familiar faces belong to the creative genius of Aaron Sorkin and to his gifted team of producers and writers.  I've borrowed them for my own amusement and that of others just for fun and because I need a life outside of my job, for which this will have to suffice for the moment.

This is the fifth in the _Roses _series, which includes _Afterglow_, _The Leash_, and _At the Pleasure of the President_ as well.

*****

Okay.  I'm confused now.  Thoroughly and utterly confused.  Yesterday, the President of the United States offered my assistant a job.  Not just any job, either.  Oh, no.  Jed Bartlet wants my Donna to be his personal secretary.  He thinks she has what it takes to step into Mrs. Landingham's shoes.

I have no doubt that this is the case.  On the very rare occasions that I had the opportunity to speak with Mrs. Landingham about such things, she told me that Donna was the very best of a very promising lot of the people who actually run the country – by which she most definitely _did not_ mean people like me.

However…

Donna is and has been since she stepped into my life the single unique individual who holds me together in the office.  I get index cards with notes about things that I don't know I need to know until magically the information is at my fingertips just when I realize I need to know.  She watches the clock for me, arranges my meetings, and reminds me to eat lunch everyday.  She makes me laugh and she knows when all I need is a commiserating smile or a brief hug.  If she has one failing, it's that she doesn't, on principle, bring me coffee.

Not at the office, anyway – and herein lies the root of my present conundrum.  If Donna takes the position of Personal Secretary to the President of the United States, she will no longer be my assistant.  Thus, there will be no perceived impropriety at the fact that Donna does bring me coffee in bed every morning.  That the coffee is not hot by the time I'm ready to consume it is neither here nor there, although I suppose tepid coffee is healthier than the cigarette that I'd be craving after Donna's wake up ritual were I a smoker.

I digress.

I want so much to shout from the rooftops that I love her with every fiber of my being.  I can't under present circumstances – the MS scandal would be _nothing_ in comparison.  But if she were to leave my service at the office, I could.  We have to talk about this – which must be why the President left us here in Corpus Christi until Tuesday morning with only 8 hours of meetings to attend to in the mean time.

*****

Donna's just now coming back into the bedroom we shared last night, and I can't tell if she's happy or upset by the news she obviously has to impart from her phone call.  She smoothes the front of her sapphire gown with a knowing gleam, and I think that she's about to tell me after that tease that we have to be ready to meet our mini-motorcade in 10 minutes.

"That was CJ," she says, sliding down onto my lap and wrapping one deliciously long and well-muscled arm around my neck.  "Morales needs to postpone the meeting until Monday lunch time.  According to CJ, we're to enjoy the Sparkling City by the Sea on him until then."

I lay my head into Donna's shoulder, breathing in her scent and relishing the sudden freedom from obligation for a weekend – even if that sudden freedom sounds entirely too convenient to have been coincidence.  "I'd rather enjoy it on you," I reply in my best bedroom voice, and am rewarded with a toe-curling kiss.

Hours later, as we stroll hand-in-hand along the beautiful sea wall ringing Corpus Christi Bay, Donna lets me into her thoughts about the President's offer.

"I can't believe he wants me," she says in an abrupt change of subject from the 20-minute discussion we'd been having about Selena, the Tejano music star who lived and died in Corpus Christi.  "I mean, I'm not worthy to take over for Mrs. Landingham at all."

Donna's lack of self-esteem, once something that I barely noticed, had begun to bother me just before Cliff entered the picture.  It has only been getting worse in the months since the lie and revelation of her diary, and even though nothing has or will come of those little problems, I haven't yet been able to begin the real work necessary to help this incredible woman discover her true worth.  Part of me is afraid that if she does realize her worth, she'll understand that I am just as much of a gomer as every other man she's ever dated – but I love her enough to do it anyway.  So I'm starting now.

I usher her over to one of the gazebos that line the sea wall – _Miradores del Mar_, I think Donna said they're called – and sit her down in so she's cradled in my arms and able to look at me as I talk.  "Donnatella," I say in a low voice, praying that the love I have for her will come through in every syllable, "not only are you eminently qualified to step into Mrs. Landingham's role, you're the very person she would recommend to the president if she were here to do so."  I don't think that's a stretch, but obviously Donna does, because her eyes – those eyes that are the deep blue of the early afternoon sun on the waters of the bay behind her – are clouded with disbelief.  "It's true," I insist, willing her to believe.  "Mrs. Landingham told me herself on at least three separate occasions that you are, in her words, 'a 300-watt bulb in a panorama of 100's.'"

That elicits a small smile; Donna obviously remembers as well as I do the day early on in the administration when the otherwise implacable Delores Landingham referred to the perpetrator of a major secretarial disaster – one that almost led to an international crisis with Canada – as "dimmer than a 10-watt Christmas light."

"She also told me that you," I pause to kiss the furrows on her forehead away, "are the very best of the brightest."  I stop, debating with myself whether to tell Donna the rest of that particular discussion, but seeing that the disbelief is only slightly muted, I plunge on.  "Mrs. Landingham also informed me that the only thing standing in your way of achieving great things in your own right is me." 

It had hurt to hear that from the woman I appreciated as another mother figure.  The day she said that to me, she had come to my apartment bearing cookies one afternoon while I recuperated from Rosslyn and not so ceremoniously shoed Donna out for a few hours of personal time.  "Joshua Lyman," she had said, waggling her finger at me from her perch in the bedside chair, "you'd best understand how precious a gift that young woman is.  She's willing to sacrifice herself for you – and I mean everything."  I hadn't been ready to hear that at the time, but I have recently begun to understand.  And to appreciate both Donna's willingness to sacrifice and Mrs. Landingham's perception.

Donna pulls herself upright but doesn't try to escape my embrace entirely.  "No," she whispers, "no, that's not true!  I –  "

"Donnatella, hush," I say, moving my hand from her shoulder so I can still her lips with a gentle caress of my fingertips.  "You can only do so much as the 'Deputy Deputy White House Chief of Staff," I continue, earning another brief smile for using her title for herself.  "We haven't talked much about the future – next year or five years from now, whichever.  But you have so much potential, so much to give and learn and do…"

Now she does leave my arms, and she stands up to wander aimlessly within the small open structure.  I sense that silence is good now, so I just watch her as she paces, enjoying the way the wind off the bay plays with her long blond hair even as I worry about the frown on her face.

"What about you?" Donna finally asks, her words arriving at my ear on the breeze from where she stands facing the water rather than me.  "I want you to reach your potential, too – to be the Senator from Connecticut or Vice President or even President someday.  But we have to be a team to do that."

Until this moment, I had not realized that she aspires so highly for me.  I am taken aback at this revelation, because it shows far more confidence in the two of us together than I have in myself and than she has in herself.  Finding the right words takes a few minutes, which pass with the hubbub and bustle of spring breakers, the squawking of sea gulls, the lapping of waves against the rocky breakwaters, and the susurrus of the palm trees moving in the wind as accompaniment.  As I begin to speak, I hear tears in my voice.  "Donna, we will…" I swallow, breathe deeply, begin again after I go to her and wrap my arms around her from behind..  "Donna, we will _always_ be a team."

She turns in my arms, lays her head on my shoulder, stands wordless and shaking with suppressed tears.

"I mean that, Donna.  We don't have to work together as boss and assistant to be a team.  We just have to _be _together."

The eyes that meet mine are brimming with tears.  One spills over, and I wipe it away with my thumb.  More come; I kiss each one away, tasting the salt on my lips as I soothe the woman I love with so much more than I ever thought I had to give.  And now I know what I need to do.

"Donnatella Moss, will you marry me?"


	2. Donna

"Donnatella Moss, will you marry me?"

I am looking at Josh through tear-flooded eyes as he says these six words with such incredible passion, and I am not sure that I hear them correctly.  My confusion must show on my face, because he asks it again:

"Donnatella Moss, will you marry me?"  We stand together, entwined in each other's arms as the early spring Saturday afternoon lazes by us in Corpus Christi, Texas.

We have come so far in 30 days.  On Valentine's Day, Josh was dating Amy Gardner, but he sent me flowers in a drunken attempt to apologize for something he did that Amy found offensive.  The flowers were wonderful, but it was the card that got my attention.  "Donna, I love you, Josh."  Simple, sweet, and finally out in the open.

Between the two of us, anyway.  Political concerns preclude us from openly acknowledging what everybody who knows us already suspects.  Except that now, there's something new to consider:  the President of the United States wants me to be his personal secretary.  And he knows that Josh is The Rose King.

*****

We were on Air Force One last evening, making our way south toward Corpus Christi for one last campaign stop before the President went on to South America for a summit meeting.  Leo came into the staff cabin to tell us that POTUS wanted to see us – both of us – for dinner.

"Uh-oh," CJ said, shaking her head.  "You're in trouble."

"No, I doubt it," Toby corrected.  "President Bartlet doesn't eat with people he's going to reprimand."  Considering the number of times Toby has been reprimanded versus the number of times he's eaten privately with the President, he's probably the authority on this issue.  "Maybe he just wants to be entertained."

Sam had to jump in.  "We should get you two warmed up.  Quick, think of something they can banter about."

"How about the moronic nature of this conversation?" Josh asked.

"No, I agree with that," I replied.  "We could replay the six files about six things for six meetings with six men conversation."

Josh smiled; he loves waiting for me to slip and say "sex" instead of "six", but I only do that when we're alone in bed – and then it's intentional.  "I don't think he'd find it nearly as entertaining as I do," he finally says.  Before he can continue, the steward comes by to tell us that dinner is being served in the state cabin in three minutes, and we depart from our friends with their predictions for both doom and joy echoing in our ears.

"Good evening, Mr. President, Dr. Bartlet,' Josh and I said together as we stepped inside the private cabin and were closed in behind the soundproof – or so we've been told – door and bulkhead.

"Good evening.  Please, Donna, Josh, come and sit down."  President Bartlet stood and pulled my chair out as Josh shook hands with the First Lady and seated himself.  Then he did something I never thought I would hear him say – at least until he's no longer the sitting president.  "For tonight, this is Abbey and Jed having dinner with their friends Donna and Josh, okay?"

Josh raised an eyebrow, his mind obviously working at high speed.  "Um, not to cause a fuss, sir, but are you sure that's allowed?"

Jed Bartlet laughed – loudly – and slapped Josh's shoulder in the way that men have.  "I'm the President of the United States, Josh.  If I want someone to call me Jed, I think I'm allowed."

"Okay, uh, Jed."

"Much better, Josh.  Donna, would you like a glass of wine?"

"Yes, Mr. – Jed," I said with difficulty.  It was a little easier to address the First Lady.  "Abbey, you look wonderful."

"Thank you, Donna.  It's the relief of having the whole licensing thing over and done with – for which I have to thank you."

"Donna?" the President and Josh asked at the same time.

Abbey Bartlet nodded.  "She's very persuasive."  She and I both knew that my persuasiveness was as much my own anger as anything, but it was righteous anger that apparently served a purpose.  Neither of us said anything more about the subject.

Dinner was delightful.  The First Couple shared the story of their courtship and regaled us with the story of Jed's proposal to Abbey, which was not as romantic as he wanted it to be, but since it achieved the desired results, he found it acceptable in the end.

"And speaking of acceptable in the end, what's it like keeping the secret of The Rose King, Josh?" the President asked, changing the subject as he poured the dessert wine at the cabin's coffee table an hour and a half later.

"Hard, sir."  Something passed between Josh and the leader of the free world that I couldn't see or understand.  "Oh, my God, sir.  You know, don't you?"

"Yes, Josh, I know."

"Was it a lucky guess a couple of weeks ago?"

I had not the foggiest idea what they were talking about; apparently, Abbey did, though, as she leaned over to me and told me how Josh had been cradling me in his arms as we waited for takeoff from LAX after a fundraising trip earlier in the month.  I had been asleep, hence my absence of memory.

When Jed Bartlet smiles his most personal smile, the warmth would melt the coldest heart.  He blessed us both with one.  "No, Josh, it was not."

Josh and I traded confused looks.  "It wasn't?" I managed a fraction before Josh could.

"Nope."  He sat back on the leather sofa and put his arm around his beautiful wife.  "Did it ever occur to either of you that anyone should have been able to figure out who sent the roses simply by checking with the security desk?"

Okay, well, that one had gone right over our heads – I had known and Josh hadn't exactly been thinking straight.

"That must have been what Sam was griping about," Josh murmured, thinking back to Valentine's Day.

"Very likely.  There was no record because I signed for the roses, Josh.  They were delivered at the same time Abbey's roses were."

We sit in silence for several seconds before Josh finds his voice.  "You've known all this time?"

"Yes, and I'm delighted.  The question is, what do we do about it?"

*****

"Donna?"  Josh asks after a moment when I don't answer him right away.

I can't answer him, not yet – I know what I will say, of course, just not how.  So I decide to be perverse.  "I'm sorry, were you talking to me?"

For a brief eternity, I think I've really blown it, but then he reads my expression and sees that I'm playing with him.  He gets in the game.  "No, actually, I was talking to the Donnatella Moss who's currently touring the _U.S.S. Lexington_ over there."  He waves across the bay toward the retired aircraft carrier, now a beautiful museum of Naval air power and history.  "I figured she could hear me better than you could."

I smile, which makes his smile broader and his dimples come out in full force.  "You really do mean that, don't you."  I make it a statement, wondering as I say it how he will react.

He takes me in his arms, caresses my hair as my head lays against his shoulder, rocks me to some music he hears and sings to me unintelligibly.  Even so, it's nice, and I am content to be where I am for the moment.  

A car drives by, windows wide open and radio blaring at full volume, ruining the mood.  Josh laughs a little and leans back to angle his head so he can make eye contact.  "So, do you think it's a fair trade?"

I couldn't quite follow his train of thought, which must have been obvious on my face because he elucidated with a grin.  "I mean, trading the boss in for a husband?"

"That depends," I say, moving my arms from his waist to his shoulders and holding my head up to answer.

"On?"  His eyes glow with mirth.

"Me getting to interview the assistant's replacement when you trade in your current assistant for a wife."

His eyebrows pucker a little at that, but then ease when he thinks it through.  "That makes eminently more sense than me going through three dozen temps before the right woman clicks with me."

"Oh, Josh," I say, chastising him sweetly, "Who said anything about a woman?"

The love of my life howls, laughter erupting from him in waves that match the pitch and frequency of those breaking on the beach a few yards away.  "Donna, you aren't afraid of a little competition, are you?" Josh asks when he can breathe again.

"I have no competition," I say, confident in that department on both the romantic and professional front.  "But I don't want your next assistant to pine away with love that cannot be requited because you've already found your one and only."  I pause to make sure he's looking at me.  "Besides, I don't want _anybody_ else to bring you coffee."

"So, is that a 'yes'?"

"What?"

"Will you marry me?"  There should be exasperation in his voice, but I think that because he knows the answer, he's not as impatient as he could be.

"Oh, that."  I kiss him, putting every ounce of my love for him into the one simple act.  "Yes."


End file.
